


The House that Dripped Scotchka on Denny

by Wasuremono



Category: The Room (2003)
Genre: Dark Comedy, Gen, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasuremono/pseuds/Wasuremono
Summary: Life with Johnny has always been strange. Why would it be any different now that Johnny's dead?
The apartment is haunted, and Mark has to deal with it. Of course.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HerbertBest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerbertBest/gifts).



> Thanks to S. for beta-reading and never once saying the phrase "anything for my princess."

Mark's gotten pretty good at sleeping through his answering machine. It's not a skill he's learned in the past three days -- he's been working weird hours for years, after all -- but it's a skill that's come in handy over the past three days, ever since Denny started calling all night. Most of the time, he's been too asleep to register anything beyond "oh, Jesus, it's _Denny_ ," but tonight he's just awake enough to actually make out the message on the seventh version of it, sometime around 5 AM. "Mark? Are you there? It's me. I reeaaaallly need you to come over! There's a ghost in here and I can't --"

Okay, Mark decides, this has gone beyond "ignorably weird" and into "should probably do something." He's on his feet and on the phone before his rational mind can tell him this is probably not a really good idea. "Denny? Hey, sorry. I was asleep."

"Oh my God, Mark, thank you! Look, there's this ghost and I need you to help!"

"Okay, start from the beginning. First, what do you mean, 'there's this ghost,' and second, why do I need to help?"

"It's just..." Denny pauses, and Mark can hear him inhaling over the phone, like it's the first time he's thought to do it tonight. "Look, it's a ghost, okay? There are noises and, um, blood dripping from the ceiling, and... stuff. A lot of stuff. And you're a ghost hunter, right? Didn't you say you were a ghost hunter once?"

Mark cannot remember ever saying that he was a ghost hunter. "Um, Denny, I'm a --"

"Something like a ghost hunter, right?"

Oh, Christ, whatever. Life was too short to argue with Denny. "... yeah, I guess."

"Great! So, uh, can you come over? Now?"

"Fine. Whatever. Just a second." Mark hangs up and scrapes together clothes -- no use going over to meet Denny in his boxers, right? Even if he's not leaving the building, just going downstairs to... yeah. Johnny's apartment. Denny's apartment, now.

Mark hasn't really thought about it before, because he's been trying not to think about much of anything, but it's a little weird that Johnny left his apartment to Denny, even if he was his... son? adopted son? Nephew? Adopted nephew? Could you even adopt someone as your nephew? And could you even leave someone an apartment in your will? Had Johnny secretly been their landlord all these years? Anyway, it's weird, and now, ghosts. 

Mark decides not to think much more about it. Life with Johnny has always been strange. Why would it be any different now that Johnny's dead?

* * *

When Denny opens the door to the apartment, there are three things that strike Mark right away:

1\. Denny is wearing footie pajamas with pictures of dump trucks all over them. Isn't he in college? Or, like, working on an MFA? Something like that.

2\. The apartment looks exactly like it did two months ago, on the last night of Johnny's life. He thinks some of the party decorations might even still be up. Then again... 

3\. Okay, no, the apartment doesn't look exactly right. There are dresses lying all over the couch, for one thing. Roses are strewn everywhere. A dark liquid is dripping from the ceiling. There's a palpable funk in the air, something familiar, but he can't place it.

"You have a party in here?" Mark says as he steps in, trying to make a joke, but Denny just grabs his arm forcefully. He's shivering. "... okay, okay, no jokes. Tell me what happened."

"Every night," Denny replies. "Every night it's like this. I go to bed, and then I just hear this laughing and yelling downstairs! It's awful, and I can't get to sleep, and then I wake up too late and find it like this. Sometimes there are pizzas, too."

"Okay. One step at a time. First question: do Mike and Michelle still have a key?"

"... I don't know. Am I supposed to lock the door?"

"Most people do." Mark is going to have to make up any ghost-hunting knowledge as he goes along, but he suspects that "lock your damn door so your idiot friends aren't wandering in and making you think there are ghosts" is probably a good first step. He starts towards the couch, looking for any suspect underwears -- but no, these really don't look like Mike or Michelle's clothes, now that he's looking more closely. In fact, all the dresses look suspiciously the same. "... uh, Denny? Is it always this dress?" He picks it up, and he knows -- it's that dress. The red dress.

Even before Denny can answer him, Mark places the smell he's sensing in the air. It's a scent he's grown used to in his work in San Francisco's scenic parks, coffee shops, and stock locations: the scent of romance. It lingers in the air like pizza leftovers -- actually, it might _be_ pizza leftovers -- and roses, and perfume, and... wait a second.

Mark paces forwards, towards the puddle of blood, and he does the cool move he's waited a lifetime to use; he dips a finger in, then licks it. "This isn't blood," he says, because nobody uses that move on anything they think is actually going to be blood. 

"What is it?" says Denny, helpfully.

"Scotchka. Denny, you've got a bad case of romance haunting here. We need to call the lady down the street in the morning -- she has a romance-sniffing dog. We have to clean this place out."

* * *

The florist and her romance-sniffing dog arrive at 9:00 sharp the next morning, and it takes the pug a solid four hours to finish its search. It flops to the floor, wheezing, and Mark takes a look at the giant pile of stuff it's dug up from the far corners of the apartment. There are fourteen identical red dresses, thirty-six pairs of pale blue cubic-zirconia earrings, and a pile of roses he isn't even beginning to count -- definite hits. The seven half-full pizza boxes and four empty scotchka-stained rocks glasses might be false positives. The single pair of boxer shorts are definitely Mike's. 

Denny has watched the entire process with a steady, fixed gaze that Mark is almost proud of. The kid's a quick learner. "Wow, that's, like... two hundred roses? Three hundred?"

"About two weeks' supply for Johnny," says the florist. "He really was my best customer." 

Mark grabs the box of trash bags as the florist shows herself out, the pug in her arms still making tiny horking noises. "C'mon, Denny. Let's get this crap out of here."

"Do you think this'll work?" Denny seems hesitant, and he's spending a little too long rubbing the fabric of the dresses. "I mean, if it works, okay, but..."

"Look, do you really want this stuff lying around?" Before Denny can answer, Mark continues, because he really doesn't want to hear Denny tell him he doesn't mind all this crap being here. It seems like Denny probably wouldn't mind if there wasn't a ghost around. "It's drawing the ghost. I think. -- I mean, I know, because I'm a ghost hunter. Remember? So let's take it out."

"Okay," says Denny, biting his lip. "But you have to stay up and see if anything happens tonight, okay? Promise."

"... Promise." He'd had no such plans, but if it gets the job done, it gets the job done. Tonight there wouldn't be a ghost, now that all of Johnny's crazy love crap was gone, and that would be that. 

Right?

* * *

Mark keeps his watch on the stairs. It seems right, somehow -- uncomfortable in a familiar way. There's a little hairline crack in the wood whose feeling on his ass is downright nostalgic --

Man, this ghost romance garbage is starting to get to him. He has to stay focused.

It's midnight when the laughing begins, coming from the kitchen nook, and soon its source stumbles into view. It's what Mark secretly feared, even more secretly expected, and non-secretly can't help but frown at: Johnny, translucent and glowing, overlaid on reality like a mediocre film student's first attempt at a special effect. Johnny's clothes are rumpled, and there's a necktie tied around his head. A rocks glass in his hand sloshes. He's laughing uproariously, talking to someone or something that isn't there in words that aren't quite distinct, like the combined voice of a crowd. 

All Mark can do is stare; it's his oldest reflex, and he falls back on it without a moment's thought. Holy shit, that is seriously a ghost, isn't it? (Or Denny's really good at holograms and also good at long cons, which seems unlikely.) He's pretty sure he's not dreaming -- in his dreams, he wouldn't feel the staircase putting his ass to sleep -- which means... no. This is all actually happening. And the romance-sniffing dog didn't do shit. New roses are already coalescing on the couch; Mark's sure the rest will follow. Just behind Johnny, there's the thin strap of a new red dress, poking out from between the couch cushions.

The ghost's meandering path takes him a bit closer to the stairs, and it pauses. For a moment, there's befuddlement in his face, then a moment of sheer confused rage -- and then it's flat again, Johnny's too-familiar default expression of pleasant surprise. "Oh, hi, Mark."

Something shorts in Mark's brain, and the world goes black. 

When he wakes up, his whole body aches, but he's guessing that's the staircase. Johnny -- the ghost of Johnny -- is gone, leaving roses, a dress or two, and a fresh puddle of dripping scotchka in its wake. There's a small white rectangle lying by his head, and he forces his vision to focus on the near field to make it out better. It's a business card. Written in a flowery script font next to a cluttered coat of arms is the inscription: "Fraternal Order of Peters, San Francisco Local 515." Underneath, a scarcely less-flowery cursive hand has written "Meet At Coffee Shop, 10:00 AM."

Jesus Christ, Denny has _got_ to start locking the fucking door.

* * *

One shower, change of clothes, and 15-minute drive past a number of scenic San Francisco landmarks later, Mark arrives at the coffee shop. The crowd is sparse, so it's not hard to pick out his contact from the "Fraternal Order of Peters:" the only Peter he knows, sitting at a corner table with... huh, one of Johnny's friends from the party? What was his name? Steven?

Mark sits down, and Peter nods curtly. "Good. I'm glad you found our card --"

"It was right next to my head."

"-- and are willing to discuss this with us. The situation has become serious, but we think we have a solution."

"Okay, back up," says Mark. "I need you to tell me what's going on. How is there a ghost? Why is there a ghost?"

"Well. It's complicated, but..." Peter swallows hard. "I may as well explain. We believe the ghost to be the product of Johnny's unusual capabilities in life. As you well know, as his best friend, Johnny was a charismatic and popular figure well above and beyond his... let's say, likely realistic threshold of charisma. We believe he may have been some sort of vampire. In any event, his emotional presence was extremely strong, and we believe it created a ghost to reenact the most powerful of those emotions -- his romantic gestures. Is that sufficient explanation for you?" Peter swallows hard, again, staring down Mark.

Oh, right. Mark tried to kill him that one time, didn't he? It's funny how he forgets these things -- like the events of his life don't quite connect into a coherent story, sometimes. "Yeah, it's fine," he says. "I guess. Look, I'm not gonna do anything rash, okay?"

"I hope not," says... okay, Mark's pretty sure this guy's name is Steven. It's the only thing he can pull up about him. "After our emergency extraction and replacement last time, the Fraternal Order of Peters needs reassurance of your cooperation."

"So, uh. About that. 'Fraternal Order of Peters.' Aren't you named Steven?"

"I was _undercover._ "

"Oh."

"Anyway," replies, well, Peter I now? Nah, he can just stay "Peter" and the new guy can be "Peter II," that's easy enough. "We have a limited time to act. I trust you observed the motions of the ghost last night? According to our observations, the ghost is slowly recreating a particular night, moving further into its programmed event every night. Its progress is towards the stairway, and then the bedroom."

"Holy shit," says Mark, putting the pieces together. "We _cannot_ let it get to the bedroom. I don't wanna see that."

"Good, we're on the same page. We've arranged for the services of an SNPO -- ah, a Special Non-Peter Operative -- tonight. Can you secure the scene and the other Person of Interest?"

"You mean Denny, right?"

"Yes. It's important that he doesn't interfere. Can you help us with that?"

Mark nods. He thinks he can handle it, and besides, this is about the only chance he has to ever sleep again. "Just tell me what to do."

"Be ready at midnight," says Peter II. "And bring plenty of scotchka."

* * *

It's 11:58, and Mark has done all the preparation he thinks he can manage. He's left last night's romance leavings where they lay, and there are two big handles of cheap scotch and cheaper vodka, uncapped and ready in the center of the floor. He thinks of drawing a pentagram around them, but he never quite got the hang of drawing a star back in elementary school, and that's the same thing, right?

There's a stirring in the air, and behind him, the first drip of scotchka from the ceiling herald the beginning of the haunting. Johnny's ghost shimmers as it emerges into the world next to the vodka handle, and it stares into Mark's eyes lovingly before it can realize just whom it's looking at. "Mark? Hi? What are you doooing here?"

For a moment, Mark almost wants to apologize. Johnny was his best friend, after all, even if that was maybe because he was a secret vampire, and things were never supposed to get this nuts -- but then the door to the apartment flies open. Standing there are Peter and Peter II, dressed in dark suits with the cluttered coat of arms of the Fraternal Order of Peters embroidered on the chest pockets, and between them is a figure in a long black hooded jacket, face hidden in the darkness. "Stop right there, ghost!" yells Peter. "We've got a young Peter, an old Peter, and a licensed and registered Soultaker!"

"Wait," says Peter II, "which one of us is the old Peter?"

"It doesn't matter!" 

Johnny howls, a yawp of baffled rage that somehow turns into a laugh. His face sets again, back into Johnny at his happiest: the joyful host, center of attention and love. "Ha ha! Great story, Peter!"

The black-clad figure takes a deliberate step forward, taking off its black gloves and palming an old-fashioned pocket watch. Johnny's still laughing, off-guard, as it closes in and places its pocket-watch-holding hand on his shoulder. Then Johnny screams, all facade of his former life gone, as his spectre begins to disintegrate into neon-bright green light and be sucked into the black-clad figure's pocket watch. It takes a solid minute or two, long enough that it's excruciating to watch, but Mark watches the whole thing. 

When Johnny's finally gone, the roses and dresses fade, and the scotchka puddle on the floor begins to evaporate, leaving only the odor of the actually-present open handles as a memory. "What," says Mark, "just happened? Did you guys do anything? And who's this, uh, Soultaker?"

The black-clad figure flips its hood over... oh, God. Claudette? "Claudette?" Mark says out loud, as an echo of his own mind.

"Hi, Mark," Claudette says. "It's nice to see you again. How's Denny doing?"

"He's, uh, he's fine, he's Denny. But --"

"Oh, don't worry about it. Like the boys said, I'm a fully licensed and accredited Soultaker these days, and I'll be taking Johnny's soul on to his reward. There's really nothing to worry about."

"But, I mean, how did you --"

"Well, after I passed on, I bumped into this nice boy on the way to the end of all things, and he talked to me a little about Soultaking. It's a very exciting growth industry, you know."

"... Wait. You died?"

"I definitely died of breast cancer." Claudette gives him that stern, faintly disappointed look that Mark remembers all too well. "Don't worry about it."

"Hey!" calls a voice from behind Mark, and he realizes that Denny's gotten up. (Didn't he lock the bedroom door from the outside? Christ, this "never locking anything" bug is spreading.) Mark turns to face him, grateful that Denny's at least wearing daytime clothes, not the dump-truck pajamas. "Lisa's mom! How's Lisa doing? Is she still pretty?"

"Oh, don't worry about her, dear," says Claudette. "Really, though, I've got to get going now. Nice seeing you boys again." And with that, she's out the door. Some things don't change with death, Mark guesses.

Peter II clears his throat. "Ah. Well, that's that done. It looks like there isn't much more business for the Fraternal Order of Peters here, so we'll just be going, then?"

Yeah, Mark thinks, they can go ahead and disappear. Now that it's over, this is just another weird event in his life, one that doesn't feel likely to offer closure. Maybe closure isn't really something you get in this world, especially not when your best friend's ghost has just been soultaken by the mom of your best friend's and your mutual ex. His eyes go to the floor, and then he realizes -- there is one last thing. 

"Uh. Peters. Before you guys go... do you know a good place to rent a rug cleaner?"


End file.
